


don't forget the salt

by tagteamme



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Human Coran (Voltron), Kolivan - Freeform, M/M, Married Couple, Mentions of Other Voltron Paladins, niche kolivan hobbies: the saga continues, terrible attempts at cooking, when you try your best and you don't succeed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-21 21:46:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13152660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tagteamme/pseuds/tagteamme
Summary: Keith brags about his husband's skills in the kitchen. Shiro gladly invites Keith's co-workers over for dinner.Neither of them can actually cook.





	don't forget the salt

**Author's Note:**

> Gift for [Duma](http://ze-zir.tumblr.com) for the Sheith Secret Santa! They requested cooking in an apartment, and I kind of ran with it :^) I hope you enjoy!!

“My husband cooks really well too,” Keith blurts out before he can stop himself, and two pairs of eyes sharply turn to him.

“Does he now?” Lance asks, and Keith nods. “I’ve never seen you bring leftovers to work. Or anything from home, really.”

Keith freezes, and he feels one of his eyes twitch. He curses himself; he’s done a great job of ignoring Lance’s humble-bragging nonstop for the past couple of weeks.  He’s managed to go long enough without taking Lance’s bait, but today they’re talking about loved ones that can cook well. He has no idea why this is the topic he breaks on.

“He cooks in moderation,” Keith says. “He knows how to portion really well. And also cook really well. He cooks like an angel.”

The first and second part is not a lie—Shiro is  _ amazing _ at portioning out the right amount of rice and chicken and the vegetable of the week when he prepares his meals in advance. The last part is however blatantly false. Shiro can bake barely seasoned chicken, cook rice, and cut carrots and celery and put them in the same bowl. That’s the extent of Shiro’s cooking skills, and it took him four years of college and three years of grad school to refine it.

“What’s his speciality?” Pidge asks, and Keith panics. Shiro’s speciality is sometimes not dropping the flavour packet into boiling water and then forgetting about it when he makes instant ramen.

“A lot,” Keith continues to lie because deep down, he hates himself and wants to continue embarrassing himself in front of his coworkers. “He’s literally the best at everything. I haven’t seen him try anything he’s not good at.”

Keith’s going to blame it on the part of him that’s stupidly proud to be married to Shiro. He’s also gonna blame it on his complete and utter lack of social skills and the attached need to overcompensate. He’s only been living in the city for two months, so he’s trying to keep whatever friends he’s made, even if they are just co workers. 

Thankfully, they drop it.

Until the end of the work day rolls around, and Keith remembers that his car is in the shop and that he’s getting a ride home today. Specifically, he remembers this when the doors to the elevator ding open, and he sees a familiar white tuft of hair standing in the lobby of the building. Keith tries to think of how to get to Shiro while at the same time avoiding Lance and Pidge, who had shared the elevator with him.

“Woah,” Lance and Pidge blink in unison. “Who’s that?”

“Who?” Keith asks, like he doesn’t notice their direction of their laser focus.

“The hot guy in the grey suit waving to us,” Lance says faintly. “Why is he waving at us?”

“Ah,” Keith’s not sure what to say. “I see.”

“Keith!” Shiro calls out and any hope for a secret exit goes out the door.

Stiltedly, Keith approaches Shiro while his two coworkers watch like hawks.  Shiro’s still in his charcoal suit, having come directly from work to retrieve Keith. He puts an arm around Keith to pull him into a hug, before turning to Keith’s coworkers. There are five whole seconds of silence before Keith remembers that yeah, he’s supposed do introductions.

“This is Shiro,” He says awkwardly. “My uh, husband.”

“The one that’s an amazing cook?” Lance asks and Keith feels Shiro stiffen slightly beside him. To his credit, he keeps his smile on while Keith scrambles to say something. 

“I only have one,” Keith replies, and the arm still slung around his shoulders squeezes. “Right, uh, this is Lance and Pidge. My co-workers from work.”

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” Pidge says, shaking Shiro’s hand when he extends it out to her. “Keith says great things.”

“Specifically about your cooking,” Lance adds, and Keith does his best not to glare. “Would love to try it one day. Keith’s selfish and never brings leftovers.”

Keith stares at Shiro’s hand as he shakes Lance’s, and waits impatiently for this to be over so that he can go home in peace. Shiro’s not the best at lying sometimes, so Keith wants to leave ASAP before he can say something friendly yet incredibly stupid like—

“Well, why don’t you guys come over for dinner one day?”

 

* * *

 

Keith drags his free hand over his face. The eggplant stares back at him sadly from the saucepan, where its skin is crisping and the inside is the odd shade of soured milk. 

“Does that look okay?” Shiro asks from behind, leaning over and resting his head on Keith’s shoulder. He wraps his hand around Keith’s and shifts the spatula around. The warm press of Shiro’s torso against his back would be inviting for Keith, if he wasn’t more focused on the pathetic sizzle and splutter of the stir fry. 

“It smells disgusting,” Keith frowns, and tries to poke at a piece of green pepper. It’s stuck, and he has to scrape at it a little. He’s not quite sure how they burned it when they’ve been both standing in the kitchen the entire time. 

As soon as they got home, Keith had filled Shiro in on the lie he had told his co-workers. Shiro had given a nervous laugh, and asked if they should disguise takeout as home cooked food. 

“We’ve only been living here for two months,” Keith had pointed out. “We know like two places. And I’m pretty sure they’d be able to find us out.”

The dinner Shiro had invited them to was on Saturday; currently, it was Monday. They figured they may have just enough time to perfect one meal well enough that Keith wouldn’t be embarrassed in front of everyone. Keith had initially set out to learn on his own, but Shiro had insisted on joining in and shouldering part of the responsibility since he was the one that had set out the dinner invitation. They’re both absolutely terrible at cooking, but they’re as stubborn as donkeys and equally determined.

As of now, they’re both standing over their third attempt at an eggplant stir fry. Shiro’s laptop is sitting open beside the stove, playing the YouTube video on repeat. Keith has no idea why KaydeeKooks classifies this as a simple, fifteen minute recipe, but he’s developed a small amount of hatred for her that’s amplified by the smell of the oil burning. 

“Let’s dump this,” Shiro suggests, and Keith groans. “I need a shower anyways.”

They’re still in their work clothes, due to their enthusiasm to start cooking immediately, and there’s a streak of red chilli powder up Keith’s white dress shirt. Shiro’s got a large oil splatter on his, and Keith’s sure they smell like burnt spices and poor cooking skills.

Still, he flips the vegetables with great determination. They did a grocery run right after Keith had told Shiro the whole story, and had bought a kitchen cookware set as well. Keith’s damned if he doesn’t attack this task with full force immediately. Shiro has to physically remove the spatula from Keith’s hand. 

After the food's been dumped, Shiro manhandles both of them into the shower and tries to entice Keith under the warm spray. 

Keith’s busy frowning and thinking about whether or not a barbecue dish would be easier. They have an unused one on the balcony of their apartment, and even though it’s mid December, he’s sure it wouldn’t be too hard to use. Shiro had moved to this apartment in August when he started his new job, and every time he Skyped Keith, he’d be grilling some form of chicken or fish on the balcony. When Keith had finished packing up their old home and had moved into the city with Shiro, Shiro had happily grilled hot dogs for a week straight. Somehow, Keith doesn’t see them passing off decently barbecued weiners as an amazing cooking feat.

“You missed a spot,” he says absent mindedly, looking down at where Shiro’s crouched at his feet, running a soapy hand up the inside of his thigh. Shiro rolls his eyes before standing up and ruffling Keith’s hair, pinching one of his ears. “Hey!”

“Don’t stress so much about it,” Shiro says, leaning in to kiss Keith on the forehead. “It’s just cooking. We’ll find something that sticks.”

Keith’s about to suggest maybe they hadn’t heated the oil up properly, and when they get back out they should try again because they still have half of their last eggplant left. All that he manages is a “ _ mmprf _ ” because Shiro’s apparently forgotten about their pressing issue, and has decided to kiss Keith until they have another one.

 

* * *

 

Keith gets a brainwave as he looks through the thirtieth curry recipe at work. He’s glad his desk backs onto a wall, so that no one can see him look through endless “cooking for dummies” Pinterest boards. He comes across a simple red Thai curry, and is reminded of his neighbour down the hall. He’s an aerospace engineer, extremely friendly, and an  _ amazing  _ cook. When Keith and Shiro had first moved in, he had invited them over for dinner and the curry he made had tasted better than anything they had ever eaten at a restaurant.

Keith’s sure that if they offer something good enough, they might be able to get Hunk to teach them how to cook. Maybe they can walk his dog for a week, or get him a gift card or an old, old bottle of whiskey. He’s not quite sure which one of these would convince Hunk, but he’s determined to try. 

He’s kept back for overtime, which doesn’t bother Keith because for the last hour of the day, Pidge and Lance have been trying to get out of him what exactly his husband is planning to cook for them. Keith can only reply with “It’s a surprise” so many times before he snaps and accidentally yells out the truth. 

When he finally gets to leave work, he mulls over ow to approach Hunk. Shiro’s the more personable one out of the two of them, but Keith feels a sense of responsibility over this, having been the one to initiate it. He drops his bag off at home before making a beeline for the end of the hall. 

Keith knocks three times on the door, before shoving his hands in his pockets. He stares a hole into the wood, and can hear laughter on the other end of the door. He’s wondering if he should knock again, when he hears the doorknob turn. 

“Hey man,” Hunk greets as he opens the door. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Keith says, and he hopes his voice is friendly and not reeking of desperation. “If that’s okay?”

“Yeah for sure,” Hunk says. “Why don’t you come in?” 

Hunk steps back and opens the door fully for Keith, and Keith accepts his invitation.

“Do you want something to eat or drink?” Hunk asks as Keith takes off his shoes. “I baked some some sambosas since  I’m having some friends over.”

“Oh shit, sorry,” Keith says, midway through taking off his second shoe. “Should I come back? It’s not that important.”

“Neither are they,” Hunk replies easily. “It’s fine.”

“Hey, rude!” an all too familiar voice calls out and Keith’s fight or flight response is instantly activated. Hunk clicks the door lock behind him.

Keith gingerly steps through the hall and into the living room, where he’s greeted by Lance sprawled across the sofa. Lance freezes, Keith freezes, and neither of them break eye contact. 

“What are you doing here?” Keith demands and Lance sits up straighter. 

“I’m chilling with my best friend,” he says. “What are  _ you _ doing here?”

“He said he wanted to talk about something,” Hunk says before Keith can reply. “He’s my neighbour! Do you know each other?”

Lance narrows his eyes, and while Keith’s sure that Lance sometimes has the perceptiveness of a paper clip, he’s pretty sure Lance has an idea. 

“Yeah,” Lance says slowly. “We work together.”

“We’re co-workers,” Keith adds lamely and Hunk replies with a "neat!" that makes Lance's eyes narrow.

“Well,” Lance says. “What is it?”

Keith tries to search for an excuse. Something else that he can say that warrants him coming all the way to Hunk’s because unless he wants to die, he’s not about to ask him for cooking advice in front of Lance. Keith figures he also has the option of always coming back; but if Hunk and Lance are best friends, then there’s a high possibility that Hunk will tell Lance and then Lance will proceed to bray it out to the office. 

Keith can’t think of anything, and the silence is getting awkwardly long. So he internally braces himself, and prepares to dig the hole deeper. 

“Shiro and I were having a dinner for our co-workers Saturday night,” Keith says, cringing on the inside as the words spill out. “I just wanted to ask if you wanted to come?”

 

* * *

 

Shiro taps a finger against pressed lips as Keith recounts the Hunk incident.

“What?” Keith demands, and Shiro looks like he’s trying hard not to smile. “What is it?”

“I feel a little less bad for inviting your friends over now,” Shiro says, and has the audacity to  _ laugh _ when Keith gives him an unimpressed glare. 

 

* * *

 

Keith eats alone in the Burger King three blocks down the road from the office. It’s partly because he’s been craving the fries, and partly so that he doesn’t expire from embarrassment. Shiro and him had made what they thought passed for lasagna last night, and it seemed alright enough when they took it out of the oven. It  _ tasted _ okay enough and Keith had thought it qualified as edible enough to take to lunch to work.

At work, he heard Lance open the fridge door and go “Ew, what the fuck is  _ that?”   _ as he took out an unmistakably red tupperware container. Keith watched him inspect it, and was so,  _ so _ glad he didn’t label his box. Keith somehow managed to sneak it out during his break and dash across the street. He’s planning to come back with a half eaten burger as proof that he ate somewhere else, and he’s going to chuck the container in the garbage so no one can connect it back to him. 

While he sits at his table and alternates between shoving fries and stone cold lasagna into his mouth, Keith receives a text from Shiro. 

_ what r you up to  _ it reads, and Keith replies back with a  _ on lunch. _

The next message asks him how long he has till he has to go, and Keith’s barely sent it out before he has an incoming video call. He wipes the sauce off the corner of his mouth before he picks up and is greeted by Shiro’s face. 

Shiro’s sitting in his own office, back facing the window. Shiro swivels so he’s facing the sun and isn’t severely backlit any more. 

“What’s up?” Keith says around a mouthful of fries and Shiro shrugs. He’s wearing a dark red dress shirt that Keith’s sure shrunk a little in the wash, and Keith is steadily forgetting about any cooking plans they have for the evening. 

“Not much,” Shiro replies. “Just wanted to see what you were doing.”

“They said our lasagna looks disgusting,” Keith informs Shiro and Shiro frowns. 

“Who?”

“Our future dinner guests,” Keith replies. “Do you think we should look for a caterer? Hire someone?”

“I don’t know,” Shiro contemplates. “I feel compelled to learn how to cook now. “

Keith nods, because he feels the exact same way. They could start hunting for an easy way out right now, but at the same time, it irks him that they’re monumentally bad at this. Shiro and Keith have a burning need to overcome any and every obstacle and task put in front of them and Keith can’t  _ stand  _ being this horrible at something. 

“Do you want to call in tomorrow?” Shiro asks. “Or ask if you can work from home?”

Keith’s only been at the job for a month and a half, and he feels kind of bad. But he’s ahead of his work and his manager is one of the most genial people he’s ever met. Keith also remembers Pidge asking the office if the lasagna was sentient, so he nods along.

 

* * *

 

Keith calls in from work, and Coran is so nice about it that Keith blurts out an invitation to the dinner party. Coran cheerfully accepts, asks if he can bring his niece, and Keith’s sweating a little more. 

As soon as he hangs up, he puts his phone back on the bedside table and rolls over. Shiro’s still sleeping, having already informed his boss the night before, and he looks so peaceful that Keith’s going to feel bad if he wakes him up. The room’s also way too cold and their quilt is way too warm for Keith to want to extract himself from bed. So he sidles up to Shiro, and slides a cold hand under his shirt. Used to it, Shiro mumbles something sleepily and pulls Keith closer to warm him up.

They manage to drag themselves out of bed just before the afternoon starts. Keith’s having a lazy morning and wraps his arm around Shiro from behind. He waddles along with him as Shiro moves around the kitchen, trying to follow a recipe on his phone for French toast. Shiro half heartedly tries to elbow him off, but Keith’s too invested in keeping his face planted against Shiro’s broad back. 

It ends up looking half decent, and Shiro manages to sprinkle the appropriate amount of cinnamon and brown sugar onto it. They sit on the couch and pick at it, trying to analyze every bite. 

“What’s the mouthfeel like?” Shiro asks and Keith frowns. 

“What the fuck is a mouthfeel?” He asks, and Shiro shrugs. 

“I don’t know but it sounds like something we should know,” he says, daintily slicing off the burnt edge of his toast. They’ve got a handful of strawberries in between them, though Keith doesn’t think that counts as part of their cooking skills.

Keith’s not sure how they’ve gone as many years as they’ve had as functional adults in a relationship and not have learned how to cook properly. He attributes it to the fact that they probably have no taste to begin with. He also supposed that it’s due to their propensity to want to take each other out for dinner whenever they feel like eating something with actual flavour. 

“What are you thinking about?” Shiro prods, and Keith shakes his head. 

“Maybe we  _ should _ find a caterer,” he says absent mindedly, forking another piece of toast into his mouth.  

“Hey,” Shiro says, looking a little petulant. “I thought breakfast came out really well.”

“It did,” Keith agrees. He watches Shiro chow down on another strawberry, and hum contemplatively.  “You didn’t cook the strawberries though."

“I  _ chose _ them, ” Shiro says. “And they taste really good.”

He bites into another one, and Keith kind of loses track of what Shiro’s saying in favour of watching him try to wipe the excess juice off his mouth. 

“Here, let me get that,” Keith offers and gives Shiro a tenth of a second to give him a puzzled look before leaning in to kiss him. Keith can taste the sweet tanginess when Shiro opens his mouth for him, tastes the cinnamon and sugar and thinks that maybe this whole cooking thing’s not that  bad. 

He’s about to pull away and ask Shiro if he wants to try making something else, but Shiro sets down his plate and pulls Keith closer by the waistband of his pyjamas. The next kiss is sloppier, and cooking gets put on hold. 

 

* * *

 

Keith hasn’t cried in frustration since his last year of undergrad, but he feels like he’s coming close when he pulls out what’s supposed to be a shepherds pie from the oven. The edges of the pastry shell are a crisp black, and it smells like the chicken has gone bad.

“Do we have to taste that?” Shiro asks tentatively, and Keith tries to hide his crushing disappointment at the fact that they messed up a pre-made item. He silently opens the cupboard under the sink and dumps the pie in the trash.

“How are we so bad at this?” Keith moans and he can hear Shiro snort from where he’s sitting on the kitchen island.

“We can make them baked chicken,” Shiro suggests and Keith shakes his head.

They’ve tried to spice up the recipe for that once already today,  to a disastrous end. Keith knows if they serve their regular chicken, everyone will die from boredom. They’ve trying making a curry as well, misreading the ‘or’ for an ‘and’ on the recipe and dumping in both yogurt and vinegar. Keith’s pretty sure the sourness of the dish will haunt him in his dreams. 

Keith drops the baking tray on top of their stove and gives a weary sigh. The day feels like a waste, because they’ve unable to make anything good. So far the only decent thing they’ve made is the French toast from the morning, but Keith doesn’t think it’ll fly if they serves French toast for a dinner party.  

“We earn money now,” Shiro says. “Some may say we even earn a decent amount of money. Let’s hire a cook.”

Keith makes his way over to Shiro, standing in between his legs and burying his face in Shiro’s chest. Shiro gives him a reassuring hug, kissing the top of his head. 

“Hey,” he says into Keith’s hair. “At least it’s only my reputation at stake.”

“No,” Keith grumbles against Shiro’s shirt. “I was the one bragging. They’ll talk to you for two minutes and realize you’re too good to get blamed for anything.”

Shiro laughs and hugs Keith tighter. It doesn’t do much to alleviate his mood, but Keith appreciates the thought. 

Shiro gets them a last minute reservation at a fancy oysteria in an attempt to cheer Keith up, but each iced clam he eats makes him feel further distressed about their situation. 

Keith refuses  to acknowledge telling his co-workers the truth as an option. He knows now the best course of action is to swallow their pride and to look for a last-minute chef or caterer. He just needs around three more glasses of white wine before he can say it out loud with confidence.   
  


* * *

 

Keith spends all of Friday looking at caterers and personal chefs that can work on short notice, while pointedly ignoring Pidge and Lance vigorously discussing what exactly Keith’s amazing cook of a husband will make for dinner tomorrow. They throw around the words lasagna and casserole enough that he has a slight suspicion that they know who owned the abhorrent food from Wednesday. 

Keith tries not to dwell on it, and uses it as more motivation to find a half-decent cook. Thankfully, the other workers in the office are too busy trying to tear through the work to get to an early start for their weekend to notice, because Keith’s sure if they add any more guests to the party, he’s just going to pack his bags and run away. Shiro can follow after the appropriate one month gap.

He sneaks away on his lunch break to place a couple of enquiring calls, but has no luck. They’re all either booked up for the holiday season, or charge an exorbitant amount for the extremely short notice. Keith knows that technically he and Shiro do have the money to pay for it, but despite it all, he’s not willing to drop  _ that _ much on a dinner for co-workers.

He tries to call Shiro and ask if he’s had any luck, but catches him in the middle of a meeting and has to hang up quickly. It might be his paranoia, but he feels like the looks he gets from Pidge and Lance when he returns from lunch is a little too knowing.

On his way back from work, Keith stops at the grocery store. He spends a good twenty minutes in the frozen food aisle, wondering which meal he can pass off the most easily as home cooked. He remembers the shepherd’s pie, and though he tries to push the memory to the back of his brain, he can feel the faint waft of a burnt pie shell curl under his nose. 

No inspiration strikes him, so he picks up two frozen meatloafs out of self-pity for dinner. He contemplates calling Shiro and asking him what he wants, but he knows Shiro will ponder out loud for five minutes before telling Keith to just pick up whatever he’s getting for himself. He picks up a third meatloaf and a bottle of red before he checks out, just to make it a slightly classier.

 

* * *

 

When he gets home, he registers the buffed Gucci loafers sitting on the shoe tray before he hears the voices in the distance. Shiro hasn’t mentioned anything about guests coming over, and Keith feels a mild pang of irritation that he steps down on. He’s only cranky because of the dinner situation, and because guests mean that he can’t sit in his boxers and eat microwaved meatloaf while watching the Discovery channel and ignoring his problems.

“I’m home,” He calls out, and Shiro responds with a “We’re in here!” before resuming his conversation. Keith follows the sound of Shiro’s voice to the kitchen, where Shiro is standing near the stove, listening intently to someone who  is possibly the tallest and sternest-looking man Keith has ever seen in his life.

“Hey!” Shiro greets, and Keith is suddenly hit with the urge to tell him that no matter how erect he stands, Shiro’s still going to be dwarfed beside the man. “Keith, this is my boss, Kolivan. Kolivan, this is my husband.”

“Pleasure,” Kolivan replies, face stoic as he sticks out his hand. Keith takes it and shakes it, faintly feeling like he’s shaking hands with a dinner plate. A slight sort of panic starts to bubble within Keith, because all he can think is  _ another dinner guest _ . Keith and Shiro have been oddly prompt with inviting people for their Saturday dinner, despite not knowing how to cook for shit.

“Are you staying for dinner?” Keith can’t help but ask, holding his grocery bag behind him. He’s not quite sure how approving Shiro’s boss will be when he sees the Michelina dinners and the cheap bottle of red.

“Ah well,” Shiro says. “Kind of. Kolivan’s actually here to help us out for tomorrow."

Keith frowns.

“How so?” He asks, and he  _ thinks _ Kolivan gives him something that’s an approximation of a smile.

 

* * *

 

Kolivan is a firm but educational teacher. He’s also a professionally trained chef who works as a department head at an IT company, and it makes Keith’s head spin a little. Kolivan had overheard Shiro talk about their dinner ordeal to a coworker, and how hard it had been to find someone to cook last minute. Kolivan approached Shiro and offered his help, and Shiro took it up almost immediately. It sounds contradictory to everything Shiro has told Keith about his stoic, silent, and ever looming boss, but this apparently something that Kolivan regularly does with his employees.

None of this matters, because despite Kolivan’s best efforts, Keith and Shiro absolutely  _ blow _ at carrying out any cooking related tasks.

Kolivan tries to start them off easy by teaching them how to make a simple minestrone soup. If it’s done well, he explains, it’ll impress any dinner guest. It’s a versatile soup that appeals to many, and Keith and Shiro nod along like they understand what he’s saying. Keith’s not quite sure how Shiro’s managed to get comfortable enough with his boss to expose the fact that both him and his husband are absolutely terrible at a skill everyone’s supposed to have honed in college.

Kolivan keeps a watchful eye over them, instructing them how to properly cut up the vegetables and how much salt to add. His phone starts to ring, and he excuses himself for a business call, confirming with Shiro and Keith that they know what to do next. When he comes back, the soup is simmering on the stove. Shiro pulls out a package of pork chops, a tub of yogurt, and a few new bottles of seasoning.

Keith feels like they’re a pair of dancing monkeys, following Kolivan’s gruff instructions to the T. He’s not complaining though, because the slightest misstep means a great amount of embarrassment tomorrow.

Keith dips his finger in the marinade and takes a taste. Instantly, his face crumples into itself. There’s a distinctly sour taste to it that’s all too familiar.

“Did you put vinegar in this?” He asks Shiro, who shrugs. “What yogurt did you use?"

Shiro holds up the tub, and Keith groans. It’s the same tub they used last time they made curry. They had mixed the vinegar in with the yogurt so that they could dump it out in one go. He explains as much to Kolivan, whose face is imperceptible.

“They’re both acidic ingredients,” Kolivan says, it takes a moment for the half-watt light bulb in Keith’s head lights up. Kolivan shakes his head, and decides to taste the minestrone.

Kolivan ladles some soup into his mouth. The look of profound disappointment that crosses his face is something that Keith will remember forever. He feels terrible, because Shiro has a stellar reputation at his office, and Keith’s sure that each taste Kolivan takes adds another crack to it. 

“I don’t think you can serve this,” Kolivan says, and Keith withers a little at his tone. “It tastes like you dumped a block of salt into this.”

Faintly, Keith remembers thinking whether or not Shiro had remembered to add salt to the soup. He had then poured in a tablespoon, even though now that he thinks about it, it would have made more sense that Kolivan had said teaspoon. Keith has the urge to stress to Kolivan that both of them are highly intelligent, capable and responsible men that are just astoundingly bad at cooking. He follows through on that urge, and Kolivan shrugs.

“I can’t draw properly,” He says, as if that too is an essential life skill.

Keith tries to make some friendly small talk to distract from the fact that Kolivan’s discovered they only recently bought their first full cookware set. He asks why Kolivan decided to switch from a food to a tech career, and Kolivan replies with a “seemed more fun”. It’s the opposite of what Keith’s heard others do to follow their dreams, but the more he interacts with Kolivan, the more plausible it seems.

“Do you bake?” Kolivan asks, and Keith and Shiro look at each other.

“We sometimes get the premade dough,” Keith replies, and in the first display of emotion he’s given all evening, Kolivan pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Okay,” He says. “I have a proposition. But only because Shiro’s one of our most excellent employees.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

For the tenth time, Keith polishes his wedding ring. The gold shines bright enough to blind, but he’s too nervous to notice. The oven timer dings.

“I think that should be good,” Shiro squints into the window of the oven, staring at the pork shoulder cooking inside.

“ _ Tell me the temperature again _ ,” Kolivan’s tinny voice comes over the speaker of Shiro’s cellphone. Shiro dutifully recites it and Kolivan gives his approval before hanging up. Shiro pulls out the shoulder, and it smells delicious. He pierces the meat with a fork, and Keith can see it’s the right amount of tenderness from where he’s sitting on the kitchen island.

They had invited Kolivan to the party as well, but he has to drive his daughters out of state for a wrestling tournament. He’s been nice enough to stay on the phone with them as they prepare the food for the dinner, and Keith’s made a note to buy the most expensive bottle of Scotch as a Christmas gift for him.

Kolivan had told them bluntly yesterday that they were beyond reproach as far as Saturday’s dinner was concern. A microwaved dinner would be better than what they cooked, and Keith had guiltily stared at the floor while Shiro had taken it in stride. Keith was sure they were at the end of their rope, when Kolivan had made an offer.

“I’ll cook for you,” He says. “And I’ll leave instructions on how to heat it up. Except for one thing, which you’ll have to bake on your own tomorrow. But I’ll leave  _ very  _ explicit instructions for that.”

Anything Keith had thought in the past few hours about Kolivan being intimidatingly tall, his jaw being intimidatingly square, and his mutton-chop sideburns being intimidatingly large, was forgotten in favour of realizing that Kolivan was actually an angel walking amongst mortals.

Keith had volunteered to do another grocery run, and Kolivan had given him an extensive list of food. Keith had dutifully purchased each and every item, including a new set of kitchen knives, and had sat back and watched with awe as Kolivan moved around the kitchen.

Shiro and Keith had tried to help, but Kolivan informed them that they were not allowed to come near the food, so they offered to buy him dinner instead.  For a man so cultured in cuisine, Kolivan had a disgusting pineapple-and-anchovies-with-extra-parmesan pizza order, and Shiro looked a little too nonplussed when he handed over the money to the delivery boy. 

They packed up all that Kolivan had cooked, save for the pork shoulder for which he had left idiot-proof instructions on how to make. They had dutifully set fifteen alarms on their phones to get the timing right. Kolivan had made an egg salad, a roast vegetable medley, the most delicious gravy Keith had ever had, and a shepherd’s pie that had dollops of swirled mashed potato to cover the top instead of a pastry shell. Keith was ready to get on his knees and worship Kolivan; Kolivan had simply looked at him with a pitying look and had explained that these were the most basic of dishes.

By the time Kolivan had left, Keith had felt the heavy weight on his chest ease up a little.

“I told you we could do it,” Shiro had said, pressing a kiss to Keith’s temple, and Keith had been able to rest easy that night.

The panic is back full force now though, and Keith’s heart rate picks up as he watches Shiro put the meat back in the oven, following it with the shepherd’s pie. They’re just keeping the food warm, but Keith’s nervous that somehow they’ll mess up even that.

They have twenty minutes before their guests officially start arriving, and Keith’s already gotten a call from Hunk asking him if it’s cool if he brings tiramisu for dessert. Keith’s reputation is riding on this, Shiro’s less so. Keith has made him wear a snug black Henley and his best pair of dark jeans, so that if they mess up in warming up the food, their guests will be too distracted to realize the food’s burnt.  Keith’s wearing a matching outfit but to a different end; if they don’t get distracted by Shiro, they’ll perhaps be too intimidated by Keith to say anything.

They’ve also scrubbed down every inch of their living room and dining room, this being the first time they’ve had guests in their new apartment. They’re a generally clean couple, but it’s more the principle of the act. Keith’s not going to be able to look any of his guests in the eye if he doesn’t empty a bottle of Lysol wipes over the dining table, which has gotten christened multiple times since they first moved in. For added measure, he’s made Shiro buy an ornate red table cloth to throw over the dark wood and officially hide any evidence no matter how invisible it really is. 

“Food smells good,” Shiro says from the oven. “I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

Keith sets down the cloth he was using on his ring, and hops off the kitchen island to crouch down and join Shiro in staring through the oven window. His nerves must be evident on his face because he feels himself getting pulled to his feet by Shiro.

“Don’t worry about this,” Shiro says easily, pressing a kiss to Keith’s browline. “We’ve got this. It’s only my reputation at stake.”

“They’ll probably love you too much to blame you,” Keith replies. “And I was the one boosting in the first place.”

“I like it though,” Shiro says, smiling. “I kinda like that you bragged about me with a lie. Makes me feel like a hot trophy wife.”

“You  _ are _ a hot trophy wife,” Keith grumbles and Shiro laughs as he draws him into a hug. “We still have to set the table.”

“Alright,” Shiro says, and pecks Keith quickly on the lips. Keith holds on when Shiro tries to let go of him, and pulls him in for another kiss, a longer one so that he can ease his own nerves. 

He can feel the reassurance in the way Shiro moves his mouth against him, and is glad that at least he’s in this situation with him. Shiro pushes him forward till he feels his back hit  granite, and Keith clings onto Shiro’s shoulders. When they pull apart, Keith needs a second to remember what they were supposed to do.

“The table,” Shiro reminds him gently, and Keith feels a lot more relaxed.

 

* * *

 

Hunk is the first one to arrive, with the most delicious looking tiramisu ever. Keith keeps the tiramisu out on the table, and Shiro gets him a beer from the fridge. Hunk asks if Shiro had any luck cooking, and Keith overcompensates with a straight face.

“Just asking,” Hunk raises his hands genially, and Keith just  _ knows _ him and Lance have a running bet about this dinner. “Everything smells really good.”

“Thanks!” Shiro chirps happily, and Hunk gives him a small salute with the tip of his bottle. 

Lance follows shortly, arriving with Pidge and a giant gift basket. Shiro takes it with a smile, and while Lance and Pidge are distracted by his small talk, Keith holds it up to the light to see what it is. Through the translucent red cellophane, he’s pretty sure he can make out a few bottles of seasoning and a book called  _ COOKING FOR IDIOTS _ . For Lance’s sake, he chalks to up to an overactive imagination. He sets it down on the coffee table in the living room, satisfied that they’ll be able to show his co-workers. None of the edible food in their house has been made by Keith or Shiro but still. No one knows that,  _ so they’ll show them.  _

Coran is the last to show up, and it turns out his niece is the CEO’s daughter. Keith is on the verge of having a conniption when he sees Allura, even though she’s both younger, a sweetheart,  and just interning at the company at the moment. They’ve brought a bottle of really nice champagne, and Keith has to repress the urge to bow to her when she hands over the bottle. 

As predicted, Shiro’s a hit with everyone. They seat everyone in the living room and his warm friendly nature draws everyone to him like a magnet. Keith feels a sense of pride watching everyone get a sparkle in their eye when they talk to him.  Lance presses them for the story on how they met, and Shiro looks over at Keith. 

“It’s fine,” Keith waves it off. “You can tell them.”

The embarrassment of the story has worn off over the years anyways, and it had led to one of the best things in his life, so Keith can’t really complain. He is however, going to remove himself from the room and go check on the food while Shiro tells them about that one Halloween that a drunk college freshman in one half of a horse costume got stuck climbing the tallest tree on the south side of the campus

It had been 4am, and Shiro had only been passing by because he was equally drunk and had been looking for his roommate’s lost shoe. He head heard someone crying from the top branch, and narrowly avoided a bottle of bourbon falling from the tree. Shiro had climbed all ten feet of the tree and hauled an emotionally distressed Keith down. 

“I’m not scared of heights,” Keith had hiccuped. “I just really miss my dog back home. Also, you’re really hot.”

He had then proceeded to throw up all over Shiro’s shoes, before asking for his number. Three and a half years later at Keith’s graduation, Shiro had proposed.

“I think I cried a little,” Lance says when Shiro recounts it. “For an attractive man, you really have no taste.”

“I have the best taste,” Shiro insists, and while the comeback scales at maybe three out of ten at best, Keith’s heart still flutters a little. 

Coran entertains them all with how he met  _ his  _ partner when they were both running rivalling duck pond games at the local carnival. It’s infinitely sweeter than Shiro and Keith’s drunken beginnings, and Coran gets the same faraway sappy look Keith knows he gets when he talks about Shiro.   They’ve been in this city for a little over two months now, but as he watches his coworkers gathered in his living room, now taking potshots at Lance for not knowing the name of a recent client (but still landing the account, thanks to Keith and Pidge’s quick thinking), he feels like he’s been here for a lot longer.

The alarm on Keith’s phone goes off, and Shiro stands up immediately. 

“I’m gonna go check on dinner,” he says, and both Lance and Pidge shoot Keith a united look from their shared loveseat that feels too knowing to be comfortable. 

“I’m so excited to see what he’s made for us,” Pidge says, propping her head on her hand. “Hunk says you guys have been hard at work all week.”

“Yeah,” Lance adds. “He says he saw you guys make like, thirty grocery runs.”

Keith looks at Hunk, who’s engaged in a energetic conversation with Allura, and scrambles for an answer. 

“It’s our first time having guests since we’ve moved here,” Keith says, rooting his answer in as much sincerity as possible. “We didn’t really know what to make.”

He’s not sure how he’s going to reconcile that with the fact that they’re going to be serving what is probably standard dinner fare, but he figures that’s a later problem. 

Ten minutes later, Shiro’s calling them to the dining area and when Keith sees the spread. It takes a huge amount of self control and acting to pretend that this is what his amazing, highly skilled, chef of a husband cooks regularly, and that it’s not the first time Keith’s seen something on the dining table that looks like the belongs in a catalog. 

“Woah,” Lance says, sounding genuinely surprised, and Keith allows himself to cross his arms and look smug. 

“Help yourselves,” he says, preening a little, and Shiro clicks the pair of tongs he’s holding like he’s on a cooking infomercial. 

Everyone loads up their plates, and Keith breathes an internal sigh of relief that him and Shiro didn’t royally fuck up warming up the food in the oven. He walks over to stand beside Shiro, and Shiro puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

When everyone settles down to eat and Keith takes his first bite, he tries his best not to look visibly relieved that the food is absolutely delicious. Kolivan had called the dishes simple, but Keith’s on the verge of tears at how  _ good _ it all feels in his mouth. He sneaks a glance to Shiro and can tell he’s doing the same, so he takes a long sip of his red wine to hide it. 

“I take back everything I said about you being a liar,” Lance says around a mouthful of shepherd’s pie. “This is amazing.”

“You called me a liar?” Keith frowns and Lance shrugs. 

“Not to your face,” he replies.”Geez dude, this gravy is  _ amazing.  _ What did you put in it?”

“I’ll text you the recipe,” Shiro deflects with a smile that indicates he’s probably not going to. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

“Told you,” Keith mutters under his breath, and he’s feeling a disproportionately large amount of pride in work that technically he and Shiro did not actually do. 

The tiramisu Hunk brought is mouth wateringly delicious, and Keith’s glad they had let him bring dessert. They had completely forgotten about it till he called; Keith’s sure that if they had attempted to make something sweet as well, their brains would have packed up and left. After a few more drinks, Lance openly discusses what to do when everyone loses a bet, and barely hides the fact that said bet is related to the dinner.

“If everyone bets the same thing it’s not a bet,” Keith points out, and Lance gives him the finger, using his other hand to shield it from Coran’s eyesight. Keith reciprocates by pretending he has an itch to scratch on his chin, and Lance makes a face in return. 

They send everyone off with tupperware containers full of leftovers. Keith has never felt as much of an adult as he does in the moment he scoops roast vegetables into a red plastic container for Allura. Last week he had bought and eaten four boxes of fruit gushers because he remembered he was a working adult and that was something he could do, and  _ that _ had been a peak for him. 

Coran suggests they do this again soon, and Keith agrees with a smile. Internally, he makes a note to think of a plausible story about how their oven blew up and the incident has left Shiro and Keith  too shaken up to cook ever again. 

As soon as the last guest leaves, Keith lets out a deep breath that he’s been holding in since Shiro ran into his coworkers on Monday. 

“That wasn’t bad at all,” Shiro says,sliding an arm around Keith’s waist and drawing him close to his side. They’re standing and staring at the door, even though Hunk had left five minutes ago, and Keith cannot believe his luck. 

“Your boss is a life saver,” he says. “We owe him forever.”

“What are you talking about?” Shiro asks innocently and Keith turns his head to look up at him. “I was the one who made the whole dinner.”

Keith rolls his eyes and groans, and for good measure, he shoves at Shiro. Shiro just laughs and tries to hold on to Keith, eventually slipping him into a headlock. Keith complains loudly, and bites Shiro’s forearm so that he lets him go. 

“This is what you get for lying about me,” Shiro says, eyes glimmering as he blocks Keith from pinching his nose. 

“I thought it made you feel like a hot trophy wife,” Keith says, and finds himself getting bundled up in Shiro’s arms. 

“Shut up and let me kiss you,” Shiro says, and Keith ducks, giving Shiro a mouthful of hair. 

Eventually he decides to acquiesce and let Shiro kiss him, tasting the wine and the coffee lingering on his lips. Despite them pulling off the lie by the skin of their teeth, Keith feels happy and content and to some degree, successful. He presses in further, scraping fingers against the short fuzz at the nape of Shiro’s neck, and knows Shiro feels the same. 

And when they go to Shiro’s office’s Christmas party, Keith makes sure he gets Kolivan the most extravagant, showboating gift  _ ever.  _

 

**Author's Note:**

> come chat with me on Tumblr at [ phaltu](http://phaltu.tumblr.com)


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